


Climb Every Mountain

by Luka



Category: Primeval
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/pseuds/Luka
Summary: Stephen and Ryan's first Christmas together doesn't go according to plan.





	Climb Every Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a Primeval Denial Secret Santa where the prompts were: miscommunication, wavelength, time out and climb every mountain. 
> 
> Thanks to Fredbassett for the loan of her Special Forces lads (Ditzy, Blade and Finn). Major Preston is mine, as are the various Navy and RAF characters.

"Climb every mountain, cross every stream!" warbled Finn happily, beaming at the girl in the front row with a cleavage the size of the Grand Canyon.

"It's fucking ford, for fuck's sake," bawled Ditzy.

Finn stopped and frowned. "What's ford?"

"It's 'ford every stream.'"

"But why would anyone want to ford every stream? That's just stupid."

The pub clientele started to get fractious, slow-handclapping and heckling. Friday night karaoke was taken very seriously at the Stag and Hounds (known as the Hag and Hounds among the anomaly project crew because of its scary landlady who'd gained notoriety for ejecting Blade one night for showing off his knives rather too ostentatiously).

"Look, Einstein, it's a bloody song…"

"Who's Einstein?"

In the ensuing melee, as Ditzy pitched an empty beer can at Finn's head, and was taken out by a blatant body check in retaliation, Lyle grabbed the karaoke mic and belted out a pitch-perfect version of It's Raining Men, and Connor went to kiss Abby under the mistletoe and got an elbow in the ribs for his pains. Cleavage girl and her bleach-blonde chums retreated to the bar where they were chatted up by three blokes who looked like Premiership footballers.

Stephen and Ryan laughed until their sides ached.

*~*~*~

"Lester'll have a pig of a hangover this morning," said Stephen, reclining against the pillows and sporting the latest in the just-fucked look.

"I sincerely hope so," said Ryan, dumping a tray on the bed.

Stephen beat him to the bacon sarnies. "I've never seen him drink much before. He always strikes me as the sort who'd be squiffy after a sweet sherry on Christmas Day."

"That's not what Jon claims. He reckons Lester can drink any caver in Somerset under the table."

"I've got to say that's the first time I've been to a karaoke evening where you needed an armed guard!"

"The lads do get a bit excitable after they've been cooped up for too long."

"That's got to be the understatement of the century!"

"Well, we always say that Finn's the sort of person you can take anywhere twice …"

"The second time to say sorry?" asked Stephen, licking the tomato ketchup off his fingers in a distinctly provocative manner.

"Something like that," said Ryan vaguely, his fingers tracing their way down Stephen's body.

"Don't start something you can't finish, big boy …"

"Oh, I fully intend to finish it … Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! You were tempting bloody fate!"

Stephen rolled his eyes and reached for the telephone. Ten minutes later they were dressed and pelting downstairs to the car, Ryan chuntering as they went about fucking anomalies fucking with his fucking love life …

*~*~*~

"Send Finn to deal with them. He knows more about nurses than the Secretary of State for Health," said Ditzy, binding a dressing around Stephen's forearm and ignoring the patient's objections to it being too tight.

"My dog knows more than the secretary of state and he's been dead ten years … And anyway, Sister Sally dumped him last week, according to Kermit." Ryan surveyed the gaggle of giggling student nurses with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. 

"I think you'll find her name was Sophie, and she was a staff nurse. If Miss Brown turns up and finds them standing there gawping, we'll all get it in the neck."

The anomaly had opened up in the laundry room of their halls of residence and disgorged a load of what Lyle had described as mutant chickens and Connor insisted were small dromaeosaurs. Whatever, they'd been resistant to being returned to their own time and one of the little buggers had taken a chunk out of Stephen's arm. The judicious use of nets had put an end to their capers, and Kermit and Blade had thrown them back through the anomaly as if they were competing in ten-pin bowling.

Claudia approached at speed, took in the nurses who were now demonstrating a close interest in the soldiers and sallied off towards them with a determined look on her face.

"Too late," snapped Ditzy, hefting his rucksack onto his back and striding off without looking back.

Ryan mouthed something unrepeatable at the disappearing figure who, with perfect timing, turned around and flicked a V-sign at him.

Stephen spluttered, then turned it into a cough. "I want to go home," he said plaintively.

"Fancy running away to sea?" asked Ryan.

"I'd love to, but I get seasick on the pedaloes."

"Story of my life," said Ryan mournfully.

*~*~*~

"It's your turn to have Finn for Christmas." Ditzy stood, hands on hips as Ryan towelled himself dry and looked around for his clean kit.

"I think we've got a turkey ordered, thanks all the same."

Ditzy mouthed "ho ho" with no trace of humour or Christmas spirit. "We've had him for the past two years."

"A Finn is for life, not just for Christmas!"

Ditzy just looked at him. "Claire's parents are coming down and the thought of Finn in the same room as Mrs B doesn't bear thinking about. And before you say anything, Cara and Kermit had him two years running. There's no way he can go to them this year with the baby due any day now."

Ryan went to offer another suggestion, but Ditzy talked over him. "So that leaves you and Stephen to do your duty for queen and country."

And then he stalked off, leaving Ryan cursing under his breath and wondering how Stephen would take the news.

*~*~*~

Stephen grimaced. "It'll just be for Christmas Day, won't it?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean, sort of? It either is or isn't …"

"Well, we all go over to Ditzy's for Boxing Day."

"And …?"

"There's the Rupert challenge," said Ryan, looking decidedly shifty.

Stephen settled back on the sofa and took a swig of his beer. "Take your time. We've got all night …"

"Well, we always do the challenge on the weekend before Christmas Day and it's loads of fun …" Ryan smiled unconvincingly.

"And …?"

"Army, navy and RAF teams. The losers cook Christmas dinner."

"Why do I get the feeling this doesn't take place in the mess with everyone in best bib and tucker?"

Ryan looked affronted. "We've won for the past three years, so there's regiment honour at stake."

"And …?"

"Twenty-mile full pack yomp over Brecon Beacons. Losers cook the dinner when we get to the top."

Stephen rolled his eyes. "I hope you have a splendid time. I'll be comfy on the sofa thinking about you with a beer, and the footie on the telly for company."

Ryan looked even more shifty. "Erm, you're taking part this year. We're one short now Joel's gone and broken his damn leg."

"You've got to be joking, soldier boy! And anyway, I'm not in the army. I wouldn't like to think you were entering ringers."

"Last year the bloody sailors turned up with someone's brother who does those ultra-endurance races. Not that it did the cheating buggers much good … Guy was as much use as a chocolate teapot once you stuck a full pack on him."

"How many of you buggers go?"

"Teams of six."

"Hang on, what about …?"

"Bloody Lyle's sloping off skiing in Switzerland. And Kermit can't come what with Cara ready to drop the sprog at any time."

"So who's it going to be?"

"You, me, Major Preston, Finn, Blade and Ditzy."

"The Major?" Stephen found Ryan's CO, a large and abrupt Yorkshireman with a creative way of cussing about him, to be most disconcerting. And he couldn't work out what Preston thought about their relationship. Ryan claimed he wasn't in the least bothered, but Stephen wasn't so sure. The few times they'd met, Stephen had sensed the major's gimlet eyes boring into him and finding him guilty of leading the captain astray.

"He loves it. He and some mates set it up about 20 years ago and it's been a tradition ever since. He suggested I ask you when we knew the others couldn't come."

"Oh." Stephen wasn't sure if that counted as a seal of approval or not.

"He wouldn't have suggested you if he didn’t rate you," said Ryan shrewdly, seemingly reading his mind.

"Oh," said Stephen again.

"It's a big deal for us, particularly for the major. His navy mate broke his back skiing, and the RAF bloke died in the Gulf. So we do it every year because it's important for him to keep the tradition going.

"Oh."

"It that oh yes or oh no?"

Stephen kissed him. "Oh yes, of course …"

*~*~*~

Just as they were getting ready for bed, Stephen said: "Hang on, you never answered my question earlier. What's that military willy-waving got to do with Finn staying?"

"It ends up as a two-day gig, what with the meal and hauling back down to the base where there'll be a few pints in the mess afterwards. So hardly worth him going home …"

"And not worth him going home on Christmas night either, as he'll have had a drink or six and we'll be due at Ditzy's on Boxing Day," said Stephen resignedly.

"I'm sorry … I know this was going to be our first Christmas together. But there's always been this thing that no one's by themselves on Christmas Day." Ryan shrugged, clearly embarrassed.

Stephen touched his cheek briefly. "Tell me," he said quietly.

"I can't, a lot of it. You know …"

Stephen nodded, knowing it would be classified information far above his clearance level.

"A lot of Christmases, we've been posted abroad and even when it's been shit we've had a laugh and made an effort. So if you're home by yourself with no friends or family there … I reckon it's a trigger point for some of these young squaddies who either drink themselves into a stupor, or do something stupid to themselves or someone else …"

Stephen must have shown his concern, because Ryan added quickly: "I don't think for one moment that Finn would do anything daft, although sometimes I wonder what goes on in that boy's head. But since his brother emigrated to Oz, he's got no family around."

Stephen nodded again. He liked Finn a lot, but he knew what Ryan meant. The lad was a crackshot, a good soldier and a lovely guy, but he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer and Stephen could see him being easily led under certain circumstances.

"The lad needs a good woman to look after him."

"I know. But he's got dreadful choice in girls. The last one was even more of a psycho than Blade. And the one before that could drink the regiment under the table."

"Don't worry. He's welcome to stay. We'll have a laugh with him here."

Ryan rewarded him with a smile and a lingering kiss. "I should have warned you you'd be marrying the regiment when you shacked up with me."

Stephen pushed the duvet back and stretched out on the bed, playing with his cock and spreading his legs so he could tease his tight hole. "That'd get everyone talking. But I reserve my conjugals for you, soldier boy."

Ryan grinned, opening the bedside cabinet to look for lube. "And I'm coming to claim them now …"

*~*~*~

"This pack weighs a sodding ton. What's in it?" Stephen shifted the straps, but it didn't help much.

"This and that. You'll be glad of it when we get to the top."

"If," muttered Stephen, earning himself a beady stare from Ryan. "And if you think I'm wearing one of those, you're much mistaken."

"No choice. Everyone does."

"Including me." Major Preston materialised from behind a tree, Santa hat at a rakish angle.

Stephen stared, swallowed, then submitted.

*~*~*~

"Fuck me, this is worse than the first day of the January sales!" Stephen hadn't expected the start to this charade to be like the beginning of the Grand National, with a dozen and a half over-hyped services personnel pushing and shoving. A bemused passer-by – an old bloke labouring past on a sit-up-and-beg bike – was standing with a whistle in his hand, having been asked to start proceedings once everyone was settled. At this rate that wasn't going to happen much before the start of the next Millennium …

"Back. The. Fuck. Off. Now!" The voice was unmistakably female. The person, wearing a Royal Navy baseball cap, was nose to shoulder with Blade.

"Just a fucking minute …" Blade didn't back off.

"No. You fuck off to the other side and stop trying to cheat!"

"Hey, that's a fucking …"

The old codger was starting to look a little white around the gills. Major Preston, though, was on the case. "You two! Cut that nonsense out now! Sir, if you’d be so kind …"

A blast on the whistle and they were away across a field and heading towards the formidable bulk of the Brecon Beacons.

*~*~*~

"Strewth, where did the navy lads find her?" Stephen watched as the scary sailor girl was first to a stile, barging an airman six inches taller than her out of the way.

"Have you never been to Portsmouth?" asked Ryan cryptically, veering across the field and taking them through a hedge which gave them a slight lead on the rest of the pack.

"Not that I can remember."

"Best to keep it that way."

"She's certainly a ball-breaker."

"I shouldn't let her hear you calling her a girl. And you wouldn't let her anywhere near your balls," said Blade, deadpan.

"Only person who goes anywhere near Stephen's balls is me," said Ryan, equally deadpan.

Conversation faltered.

*~*~*~

"I'm going to fucking kill you!"

They seemed to have been yomping for hours without getting anywhere near the foothills, let alone the summit.

Ryan's smile was meant to be sympathetic, but it fell well short of the mark. "Not much further …"

"As Ditzy would say, you lie like a cheap Kidderminster carpet."

*~*~*~

"I'd kill for a cup of tea and a bacon sarnie. After I've killed you, of course."

"Honestly, we're not far off the summit."

"And you can tell in fog so fucking thick I can't see my hand?"

"I can navigate anywhere!"

"Inside a paper bag perhaps. Or why else have we passed that rock three times?"

"Shit."

*~*~*~

"If Finn doesn't stop whistling 'Climb Every Fucking Mountain', I'm going to ram his backpack where the sun don't shine …"

"Kidderminster," supplied Blade helpfully, earning himself a thump round the head from a very morose-looking Ditzy.

Finn looked hurt. "I'm just trying to keep morale up."

"Shut the fuck up!" they all chorused.

*~*~*~

"I wish you'd warned me that Major Preston knows all the bloody verses of Eskimo Nell."

"Of course he does, he's a rugby man."

Stephen regarded Ryan with horror. "That doesn't mean …?"

"She flexed her knees with supple ease,   
And spread her legs apart …"

"Verse 30," said Preston helpfully, striding past with Finn in his slipstream.

Stephen whimpered quietly and wondered if he could turn round and go home.

*~*~*~

"We're there!" Finn's yell broke into Stephen's ruminations.

The fog had lifted as they pelted down a gravel track, the voices and boots of the navy contingent close behind. Stephen suspected Preston and Ditzy were engaging in dodgy delaying tactics, but whatever, the triumphant grin on Ryan's face said it all as they claimed the battered teddy bear with a pair of Y-fronts on its head that had been perched on the rough fireplace in the hut.

"Rupert's ours again," said Finn happily, plonking himself down in front of the fire and earning himself a muttered curse from Ryan, who was trying to get the heat going.

Stephen looked around him. He'd assumed it would be like one of the huts walkers could take shelter in from the elements, but it appeared to belong to the military. And it was bigger than he'd expected, with a dozen bunk beds piled in threes at one end, and a compact kitchen area at the other, which included a battered metal stove and a sink. In the middle was a seating area with an open fireplace – now boasting a muttering, if not quite roaring yet, fire, thanks to Ryan's endeavours.

Benches and chairs were pulled up, supplies of beers appeared from rucksacks, Blade produced a deck of cards, and the soldiers and sailors settled down to play some bizarre twist on poker that had Stephen confused within minutes. He leaned back against the stone wall, took a swallow from a can of beer and closed his eyes. Next time Ryan tried to rope him into something as bonkers as this, he could go and have sex at a distance, as Claudia was wont to say.

From outside there were shouts and yells, and a contingent of blokes burst in through the door. It took Stephen a minute or two to decipher what was going on – not helped by Blade muttering cryptically: "Gormless fucking RAF twats couldn't wank one-handed with a 15-minute start."

It became apparent that one of the RAF lads had lost his footing on the final steep ascent and was now trapped on a narrow ledge with a suspected broken ankle. Major Preston, who was the ranking officer in the room, took charge immediately.

"Ryan, Ditzy, Blade, Finn, with me. Flt Lt Briggs, did you say one of your lads is a climber?"

"Yessir, but he's the one trapped."

"I'm a climber, sir." Scary sailor girl marched forward, barging two airmen out of the way.

"And you are …?"

"Sub-Lieutenant Bowie, sir."

"With us, then, S/Lt. Flt Lt Briggs, alert mountain rescue that they might be needed. It'll give the idle fuckers something to do instead of reading porn and playing with themselves …"

"I'm an experienced climber, sir," said Stephen.

Preston eyed him speculatively. "Then we may be glad of your experience, Dr Hart. The rest of you buggers, get cooking …"

"Bit of a drastic way of avoiding peeling potatoes," muttered Ditzy.

Outside, it was murky and overcast. Ryan fell into step beside Stephen. "Trust sodding Lyle to have sloped off the very time we need him."

Stephen smiled. Lyle, although a caver who professed to loathe climbing, was completely fearless when it came to heights, depths and narrow ledges.

One look at the ledge told them that anyone over the height of about 6ft was going to be a liability. Preston sized the situation up, then said: "Finn, Bowie, you're the lightest here. We need him roped up while we wait for the helicopter mob to turn up."

"And if they're out on another job, sir, we could be waiting hours. We've got an emergency stretcher. If Finn and I can strap him to that, we can haul him up," said Bowie.

Preston frowned. "What do you think, Dr Hart?"

"I think the Sub-Lieutenant's right, Major. He hasn't fallen far, but that ledge looks a bit unstable." Stephen had seen chunks falling off it as the injured airmen had pulled himself into a sitting position.

"In that case, the fewer people trampling over it with hob-nailed boots, the better."

"Shall I go down and …?"

"No." Both Preston and Ryan spoke together, looking critically at Stephen's tall frame.

"Sir, the helicopter mob are trying to haul a couple of fishermen out of the Severn Estuary. They’re saying it could be a couple of hours." Briggs had joined them, his baby face creased in concern.

"I think that makes the decision for us, then. If we can get the lad up, we can at least get him into the hut and make him comfortable. Blade, can you rig up the ropes?"

"Yessir."

Stephen watched as what looked like a well-oiled routine went into action. Finn and Bowie, suitably roped up, climbed down about 50 metres to the ledge. She was a natural climber; Finn wasn't, but he was dogged. Stephen lay on his stomach, Ryan holding his ankles, and advised Finn of the best foot-holds. From this angle he could see that the young airman had managed to grab tree branches, which had slowed his fall. And he could also see that there was a narrow ravine not far below the ledge. If the ledge gave way, it would be a bugger to get anyone out of it.

Ditzy joined Stephen as Bowie and Finn managed to ease the airman onto the lightweight stretcher and then strap him down. On Ditzy's nod, Blade, Ryan and the Major winched the stretcher up with the help of a Heath Robinson series of ropes and pulleys. Bowie scrambled up quickly, with Finn following at a sure and steady pace. 

"What's your name, mate?" asked Ditzy, cutting the lad's trousers away with one practiced swipe of the knife and then starting to splint the injured ankle.

"Flying Officer Hughes," said the airman in a broad South Wales valleys accent.

Blade's muttered comment about gormless fucking Welsh twats was cut off in its prime by Preston's steely glare.

"Let me guess … They call you Taffy?"

"How did you know?"

"Bugger me, it's Finn's long-lost brother," said Ryan in a low voice.

Stephen snorted with laughter and turned it into a cough. The lad certainly seemed to be slow on the uptake, but then falling off a mountain probably wasn't that conducive to a clear head.

"Sir, the helicopter mob are on their way," said Briggs, appearing from the hut where he'd been summoned by one of his lads

"How long?"

"Fifteen, 20 minutes, they reckon."

"OK. Let's get the lad comfortable out here, then. No point in hauling him inside, just to turn around in a minute."

"How are they going to land the helicopter?" Stephen looked around at the bleak outcrop.

"They won't. They'll winch him up," said Ryan.

Stephen had to admit it was all very slick – a man and a stretcher were lowered down, and with Ditzy's help young Taffy was strapped to the stretcher and then winched up to the helicopter. It was all done and dusted in less than ten minutes.

"Good work, everyone," said Preston briskly. "Now, let's go and see if those lazy sods have cooked our dinner!"

*~*~*~

The hut was full of the smell of roasting turkey and potatoes. Stephen's mouth watered. All the teams were working together seamlessly, shouting cheerfully at each other. The rescue party were greeted with whoops and cheers, and cans of beer were thrust into their hands and a plate of sausage rolls passed around.

"Blimey, this is all a bit civilised," said Stephen.

"Wait till you see the dessert," said Ryan, shovelling three sausage rolls into his mouth and then passing the plate to Blade, who took a handful.

Long trestle tables had been set up and disposable plates and cutlery produced from a bag. Each place setting had a serviette and a festive paper cup next to it.

"Sit down, you fuckers!" bawled a shaven-headed sailor, starting to pass plates of food down a line of men.

Major Preston took his place at the head of the table, with Briggs to his left and a sailor to his right – Stephen assumed he must be their ranking officer. Everyone else grabbed a place and started passing their paper cups to the bottom of the table where Blade was busy setting up a production line with a box of red wine.

The food was surprisingly good – Stephen had assumed they'd end up with lukewarm meals. As far as he could see, the only thing that hadn't been cooked in the hut was the turkey – he suspected it had been roasted elsewhere and then reheated as the potatoes were roasting. It was served with onion gravy, stuffing, baby sausages, roasted parsnips, carrots, broccoli and peas. There was enough left over for those who wanted – which was nearly everyone – to have seconds.

One of the airmen produced Christmas crackers, and these were pulled amidst much jollity. Paper crowns were worn at a jaunty angle and incredibly corny jokes were read out. Ryan's cracker disgorged a bright red plastic ring which he ceremoniously placed on Stephen's little finger to the accompaniment of cheers, whistles and ribald comments.

"Are you trying to ask me something?" asked Stephen, his cheeks flushed.

Ryan grinned. "I am."

"The answer's yes!"

"About fucking time," muttered Ditzy, who was sitting next to Stephen. To his right, Finn and scary sailor girl were deep in conversation, their dark heads almost touching. 

"What do you mean?" Ryan looked affronted.

"Pray silence for the Christmas pud, you fuckers!" The shaven-headed sailor had clearly missed his vocation as a regimental sergeant-major.

It wasn't a whole pudding, but rather slices coated in alcohol and set alight with the judicious help of a cigarette lighter. There was a hefty slice and a mince pie for everyone, served with cream and brandy butter. Then boxes of mint chocolates and a dash of brandy in the paper cups were passed around. Stephen didn't think he'd need to eat for a week, let alone consume another Christmas dinner in a couple of days' time.

The clear-up operation was swift – disposable plates and paper cups thrown onto the fire and plastic cutlery swept into bin-liner. A couple of the RAF lads washed up the tins and pots, then everyone sat down around the fire and a couple of bottles of brandy did the rounds.

The conversation was, by turns, raucous and ribald and occasionally melancholy as the military lads remembered absent friends. Stephen, who didn't find small talk easy, not least with people he didn't know well, largely kept quiet apart from chatting to Ditzy about football and about rugby to a couple of sailors.

At about 3am, attention turned to sleeping arrangements. People went outside to pee and reported that it was brass monkeys out there. The ranking officers and the winning team were allocated bunks; everyone else unrolled sleeping bags on the floor. Stephen clambered onto a top bunk and was asleep almost immediately.

*~*~*~

"Get this down you, sleeping beauty."

Stephen sat up and wondered for about half a minute where the hell he was. He relieved Ryan of the proffered bacon roll and cup of strong coffee, and demolished both rapidly despite the memory of the Christmas meal blow-out the night before.

"What time is it?" he asked, realising he'd tucked his watch into a pocket of his rucksack.

"9am."

"What now?"

"Back down the mountain with rucksacks considerably lighter than when we came up."

*~*~*~

The yomp back down seemed to go considerably faster. And it was a social occasion, with much chat and back-chat. For part of the journey Stephen found himself with one of the rugby-playing sailors. He'd noticed the lad staring at him that morning when he was getting dressed. 

The guy's name was Luke and after about 45 minutes of conversation about England's prospects for the Six Nations and possible selections for the British Lions' tour of New Zealand in the summer, he said awkwardly: "You and the captain, are you, you know …?"

Stephen nodded.

"How long?"

"Eleven months." 

And it had been the best 11 months of Stephen's life. They'd got together the previous new year's eve after a surprisingly riotous party at Cutter's which had culminated in Lester and Lyle admitting they were an item and in Stephen and Ryan going back to the soldier's flat and bonking each other's brains out for 48 hours. Stephen had assumed it would be a bank holiday stand, but Ryan had had other ideas. In the rare anomaly project downtime, they started going to the cinema and to rugby matches, and went running and to the gym together. 

And the sex was sensational. Stephen was used to dominant partners who took their pleasure quickly and left him unfulfilled. Ryan, though, knew what he wanted, but was a generous lover. Stephen could highly recommend being fucked once a day and twice on Sundays …

Luke eventually broke the silence. "Do the others all know?"

"I think most of Hereford knows," said Stephen ruefully, having discovered the city and military's bush telegraph.

"And the major?"

Stephen nodded.

"He doesn't mind?"

"Doesn't appear to. Are you asking me all this for a reason?"

Luke nodded, his handsome features going slightly pink.

"Have you told anyone?"

"Just my sister and you."

"Not your colleagues?"

Luke shook his head, and they both looked at the shaven-headed guy, who everyone called Buster, and who was regaling anyone who would listen with his escapades with a girl he'd picked up in a Portsmouth pub. The c-word appeared two or three times in each sentence.

"Do you trust any of them?"

Luke shrugged. "Gazza, maybe." He nodded towards a tall, quiet black lad who'd chatted to Stephen earlier about surfing, and who was now striding along with Ditzy, Finn and Bowie.

"Is there anyone?"

Luke shrugged again. "Yeah. This guy I met on a cycling holiday in Ireland in the summer. He's coming over for Christmas."

"See how it goes, then. And it's no one's business but yours in any case. If you get any shit, make a fuss. This is the 21st century."

"How did you get roped in to this?" Luke clearly wanted to change the subject.

"I'm a scientist working on a classified project with the MoD."

Luke nodded, and Stephen knew that military lads would pry no further.

Ryan joined them and Luke made his excuses, giving Stephen a grateful smile, then went over to chat to Gazza who, it turned out, had gone to the same school as Ditzy, albeit eight years later.

"Are we nearly there yet?" asked Stephen.

Ryan gave him the finger, then offered him a swig of water. "About another hour. We'll have a shower, then a drink in the mess."

"Sounds good."

"You looked like you were having a heart-to-heart with the sailor lad."

"Doing the agony uncle act. He's in the closet but wondering about inching out."

Ryan frowned, glancing over to Buster. "Good luck to him."

"That's what I thought."

*~*~*~

Ditzy dropped back to join them as they made the final descent into the lane where three Land Rovers were parked. "You sorted for getting home?"

"Yep. And we'll take Finn with us. 

"Good. Claire says noon as usual on Boxing Day."

"Can we bring anything?"

"Just some pop."

"Good luck with her parents."

Ditzy grimaced. "Ta. Fortunately they're going to her sister's on Boxing Day."

As they were loading their now almost empty rucksacks into the back of the vehicle, Finn wandered over. He seemed unusually diffident. "Boss, look, it's OK about Christmas Day. I mean, thanks for inviting me, but you don't want me around, not after …" He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of Stephen's left hand, which still sported the red ring on his little finger.

"Don’t be daft, mate, you're fine."

"No, it's OK, honest. Davy's invited me to stay."

"Davy?" Ryan looked confused.

Finn smiled and pointed to scary sailor girl, who was busy loading kit into a Land Rover. "Her name's Davina. Davina Bowie. She says her parents have got a weird sense of humour."

"And shit taste in music," muttered Ryan, a dyed-in-the-wool rock dinosaur.

"So it's fine," continued Finn. "She lives in Bath, so we're going to hers for Christmas Day, then Ditz says she's welcome to come to the barbecue on Boxing Day. She says she's looking forward to it."

The girl in question looked up at that point, her previously stern face breaking into a smile as she saw Finn looking at her.

"If you're sure, mate … She seems a good 'un."

Finn beamed from ear to ear. "She's loads of fun. We're going to go and see some gigs together. And I said I'd always fancied motorbiking round Northern Ireland, and she said she'd be on for that for sure."

"Nice one."

Davy strode over to them, looking much younger and much less severe with her brown hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She nodded formally to Ryan and gave Stephen a brief smile. "Are you ready to go, Robbie? They’ll drop us in town and we can collect your stuff, then get going."

"Ready when you are, Davy. We'll see you Boxing Day, boss. See you, Stephen."

"Have a good time, mate," said Stephen.

"I will. And, um, you and the boss … That's cool …"

"Congratulations. Two of the girls on our ship are getting hitched in the new year," said Davy unexpectedly.

"Oh. Right. Thanks. Nice one," said Ryan, seemingly uncertain as to how to react.

They watched the two youngsters clambering into the Land Rover which would take them back to the army base where all the cars had been left.

"Love's young dream's a turn-up for the books," said Ditzy, appearing suddenly at Ryan's left elbow.

"That's the understatement of the bloody century."

"Let's hope it lasts for a bit. She might be a good choice for him and keep him in line and do all the sporty things he likes doing that the bimbos run screaming from."

"True."

"And speaking of love's young dream, I hope you're going to share your happy news on Boxing Day."

Ryan looked at Stephen and they both grinned. "We certainly will," said Ryan.


End file.
